


The Book of Julia

by SirenofRoses



Category: Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of past Sparrow/Reaver, No Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-27 17:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17166056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirenofRoses/pseuds/SirenofRoses
Summary: Julia Rackham is down on her luck. She’s unemployed, broke, and desperate. When a strange job offer comes her way, she takes it without a second thought. On further reflection, however, she might should have asked what the job was.





	1. An Inconvenient Employment

Bowerstone’s industrial sector had, by the grace and glory of their rebel queen, been recovering rather well from the crisis of the Shadow War. While the new social policies and bloated treasury that resulted from the insurrection had certainly done a lot to revitalize the area, there still was a rather large portion of the population that still lived in what could only be described as squalor. Julia Rackham was right on the border between pauper and…well pauper with a roof over their head.

She stood awkwardly outside of Bowerstone Industrial’s unemployment office, clutching at her rather unimpressive resume. Most everything about Julia could be considered unimpressive. She was broaching middle-aged, single, and plain as the color beige. Her messy hair had been thrown in a bun that had already half fallen out and her glasses had slid halfway down her slightly crooked nose. Her clothes were all just slightly ill-fitting and slightly the wrong color, and she looked like some sort of odd crane the way she toddled about on her long twiggy legs.

She’d spent the last year bouncing from small business to small business, each time let go to “cut costs”. Hell, she’d even tried her hand at bartending once, though her customers had found her far to prudish and unreceptive for her to be kept around for too long. Besides, she thought, if she had to scrape up one more lush’s sick off the hardwood, she’d go mad.

She felt as though been waiting outside forever when the short surly woman smoking a thick wooden pipe in the next room called her into her office. “Julia Rackham,” she said, her words muffled slightly by the pipe bit between her teeth.

“Hello, Mrs. Calpernia, you look lovely today-“

“So you’re out of work again, huh?” Julia’s face twisted into a half frown and she wrang her hands.

“Well I mean times are tough and I don’t really know if the last few were suited for-“

“Look kid,” said the woman, puffing a murky black cloud from her wrinkled lips, “I’m going to level with you. No one is really hiring right now. The economy is getting better and all, but these things are gonna take time and right now it’s just not happening.”

“Mrs. Calpernia,” asserted Julia, leaning forward in her seat as though a closer proximity would somehow increase her chances of getting through to her, “I’m desperate at this point. My old place’s landlord is selling and all the available rentals in the area are just too expensive for me to afford. If I don’t get something soon I’ll literally be on the streets.” Mrs. Calpernia sighed and took the pipe from her mouth, tapping it idly on the desk as she thought.

“Listen, there is one job I’ve heard is available, but I don’t know how exactly it’ll shake out.”

“Oh that’s wonderful! I’ll take anything at this point.”

“The last person who filled the position seems to have died on the job.”

“Oh.” She paused as though trying to convince herself of her next statement. “I’m sure it’s just normal workplace hazards.”

“Well it just said ‘mysterious circumstances’ so read into that what you will.” Mrs. Calpernia let out a sigh and shook her head. “If you’re really interested, I’ll contact their people. Maybe try to talk you up a little.” The old woman scrawled out an address on a bit of parchment, sliding it across the table with thick fingers. “Show up at this address first thing Monday morning. Oh and Miss Rackham?”

“Yes?”

“Good luck.” Mrs. Calpernia locked eyes with the woman, returning the pipe to her mouth and taking a nice long inhale. “You’re going to need it.”

—

Julia looked up at the looming Millfields mansion in awe. There was no way this could be the correct place. Mrs. Calpernia was either mistaken or purposefully playing her as a fool, but at this point she was either too desperate or too gullible to just leave. Instead she took a deep breath, puffing herself up to full height and reaching up to thumb the iron knocker of the large oaken double doors in front of her. Two large curling letter R’s festooned the entrance, the both of which Julia had pointedly been attempting not to look at, as though perhaps if she ignored them hard enough they would disappear from existence.

It was several moments before someone finally answered the door, long enough for Julia to consider leaving and pretending this never happened. She was so startled by the sudden presence that she almost dove right into the bushes and ran, but luckily she managed to stay in place at least for now. It was an older gentleman, dressed in what appeared to be the garbs of a butler, though she was sure his fine coat and trousers cost more than her simple sweater and skirt ten times over. “May I help you, madam?” he said, clearly not too pleased and maybe a tad curious.

“Uh, hello! My name is Julia Rackham. I’m here to fill a staff position, though I suppose nobody told me what it was I’m to be doing…”

“Ah,” said the man, a spark of realization alighting in his eyes, “Miss Rackham, we’ve been expecting you. Come in and follow me.” He turned on his heel, opening the door wide to allow her entrance. The manor was larger than any building she’d been in before and certainly a great deal nicer. Old and foreign looking vases and other ornamentation decorated the main hall and sitting area, framing the antique crimson upholstered furniture and delicately rendered paintings that hung on each wall. A grand piano sat to the side by a parlor space and large ornately filigreed candelabra sconces flickered and glowed around the perimeter. It was beautiful without a doubt, and Julia suddenly felt more plain than ever in such an opulent environment.

“My name is James Gilt. I am the current head butler of the house,” said the man, guiding her towards the stairway that took up the center back of the grand entrance. “Master Reaver is busy at the moment, but he should be available soon to tell you your duties.”

Hearing the name aloud confirmed her fears, and she felt her stomach churn. One bedroom rental, she thought to herself taking a deep breath. “You know, no one has actually told me what position it is I’m to be filling…”

“You will be serving as Master Reaver’s personal assistant.” Julia gulped. Suddenly those ‘mysterious circumstances’ were becoming less and less mysterious by the second.

“Personal assistant?” she said, pushing her glasses back up on her face and clutching her notes to her chest. “I thought maybe it would be more of an administrative position.”

“There will be certain administrative duties you’ll be held accountable for, but primarily you are to follow and assist Master Reaver with day to day tasks including managing parts of his business ventures and household.” James did not look back at her as he rattled off the details of her job, striding easily through room after room of the enormous manor. Julia’s head was spinning. She was already aware of the dangers of working within shooting range of the business tycoon, but to be his personal assistant? She’d be full of lead before sundown.

“What happened to his last assistant?”

“Mister Hatch passed away in an unfortunate encounter with a balverine many years ago.” Julia added monsters to the mental list of things they may write under ‘cause of death’ when the coroner comes by to pick up her body. Or whatever is left of it as it seemed. One thing did stick out as curious to her however.

“Years? How long has this position been open?”

“Master Reaver has been very busy with other projects since the crown changed hands and hasn’t had time until now to search for a new one. You will be the first in five years.” Julia’s eyebrows raised. Five years was a long time to wait to get a new personal assistant, even if the last one did end up as dog food. What sort of projects could be that important, and what suddenly warranted finding a new one? “Allow me to show you to your quarters, Miss Rackham,” he said, turning a corner into what she could only assume was the servants’ wing. Julia stopped, blinking confusedly as though perhaps she misheard him.

“My…quarters?”

“Yes, this is a live-in position.”

“The agency didn’t tell me this was a live-in position,” exclaimed the woman to the seemingly apathetic James as he took a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the large wooden doors. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to…” Her voice tapered into silence as her eyes fell on the room behind the door. While it certainly wasn’t as large or as ornate as some of the other rooms in the house, it was certainly nicer than anywhere she had called home. A single bed sat just off to the left of the room beneath a window and decorated with soft red linens. There was a chest of drawers, a small vanity, and a modest wardrobe as well as a very single-seated table that appeared to be for eating or writing at. It was comfortable, homey, and most importantly it was free with the job. “Nevermind. No problem at all. I’ll have my things sent by this evening.”

“Excellent,” said James with a curt nod. “Master Reaver should be finishing his meeting in about half an hour. Today’s itinerary has been left on your table as well as a list of events that will be taking place this month. I suggest you familiarize yourself with them for the time being, and I will fetch you when the master is ready.” James gave one final little bow before handing over the room key and leaving to return to…whatever it was he did in the manor. Julia took a deep breath and looked over at the stack of papers on the table. She might as well get to work. After all, it would be terribly inconvenient to be killed before she got to spend at least one night in a mansion.

—

Julia had just finished copying down and arranging every meeting, event, and appearance her new employer had to make in her agenda—Avo’s left testicle, for a foppish rake this man certainly was busy—when there came a knock at the door. “Master Reaver will be seeing you now, Miss Rackham,” said James, and Julia could suddenly feel her heart beating in her stomach. Well if she was going to die, at least she’d die employed.

She stood and followed close behind, too nervous to ask any questions or make any comments. “The master is in his office,” James finally said as they approached a large set of doors in one of the particularly opulent wings of the manor. He opened the door and stood to the side, making his intent to stay outside very clear as Julia cautiously entered.

The room was large, as was every room she’d seen so far save for the servants’ quarters, and decorated lavishly with rare antiques, statues, and other exquisite works of art that must have been collected from all over Albion and beyond. An almost comically oversized desk sat in the center of the white marble flooring. On the wall just behind it was a painting that nearly ran from floor to ceiling and was rimmed in a golden frame.

The subject of the portrait was Lord Reaver himself, a full body depiction of the man standing in front of one of his factories dressed in furs and finery befitting an eccentric millionaire. Julia would have thought it absolutely ridiculous had he not had a reputation as chronically homicidal. Just below the painting and behind the desk sat Lord Reaver himself, dressed in all white garb with rich black furs lining the collar of his coat. A permanent smirk seemed plastered to his face over his angled face and his dark eyes leered at her from beneath his perfectly coiffed raven locks.

“Ah you must be Julia Rackham!” he said in a faux saccharine voice that would have instinctively made Julia’s face twist up was she not utterly terrified. “You must be my new personal assistant, is that correct my dear?” She almost shuddered at the superfluous use of this term of endearment. He was like a feline toying with it prey, pretending to give it a chance to slip away before sinking its teeth into it again. It was insidious.

“Good evening, Lord Reaver,” said Julia, half curtsying as she approached the desk, careful to keep her distance as best as she could, though she was certain if he wanted to shoot her he could. “Yes, I’m to be your new assistant.”

“Splendid!” he almost sang, clapping his gloved hands together. “Now I am quite a busy man, as you may have guessed, so there’s no use dawdling on with useless formalities. I have many things to get done and I need dates set for them all. Now they mustn’t interfere with any of the already planned—“

“Oh uh, I already did that, sir.” There was a pause in the conversation, Reaver blinking at her in a mixture of surprise and incredulity.

“You’re already… _done_?”

“Oh, yeah. I got a list while I was waiting in my quarters and went ahead and rearranged everything, see.” She opened her leatherbound planner, turning it towards him so he could see the neatly spaced and perfectly organized schedule for the remainder of the month. “See I keep meeting in red ink, and appearances in blue, and-“ Julia stopped herself, realizing she was probably talking about something that the man couldn’t care less about. “Anyway, all that’s left for me to do is to send couriers out to confirm all the dates and then everything will be all ready.”

Reaver cocked an eyebrow. It was impressive. She’d only had maybe twenty minutes of time before he called her in and already she’d developed her own system of bookkeeping. Perhaps he would keep her for a while. “Well done,” he said turning back towards his desk, and Julia practically glowed at the praise.

“O-oh thank you, sir! I’m just really good at planning and all…” She’d never really been good at any of her old jobs. Passable at best, but this? She’d had the job for less than an hour and already had one positive affirmation from the most frightening and notoriously particular man in Albion. As minor as it was, she was proud. Maybe she would like this job.

“And we’ll have to do something about that hideous wardrobe of yours.” Julia’s head jerked up, staring at Reaver who’d already returned to his paperwork.

“But I like my clothes,” she said defensively, her mouth moving before her brain could tell her her tone was dangerous. Reaver shot her a glance that she was sure could kill, and she stifled her complaints.

“You look like a walking potato sack, and I will not be forced to _suffer_ in the presence of someone so woefully unfashionable.” Julia frowned, looking down at her very beige sweater that was indeed far too large for her willowy proportions as a few more dry insults rolled from her employer’s tongue. Maybe she would like the job. 

Maybe.


	2. Castigate Coagulate

Lord Reaver was not a man prone to showing any outward weakness. Julia Rackham had only been in his employment for three months and she knew that abundantly well. She had never seen him express pain of any sort, be it physical or emotional, and he hid most of his thoughts behind a mask of smug indifference and superiority. His only flaw, if Reaver would even define it as such, was a streak of untamed anger that had already resulted in Julia witnessing the death of one other staff member during her time at the manor. 

The victim in question was a nervous blonde gentleman who had only been a member of the household staff for a few weeks and who had the misfortune of spilling the glass of wine he’d been ferrying from the kitchens all over his master’s antique rug. The poor fellow didn’t even have time to get out a proper apology before the loud report of a gun exploded throughout the room, and poor Julia very nearly let out a shriek as the body landed next to her with a dull thud. She had been going over the week’s itinerary with Lord Reaver at the time, and he seemed as unfazed as ever when the back of the man’s head had bloomed into a ribbons of crimson, as he slumped to the floor in a most unsettling and inhuman way, as the purple claret was covered with blood steadily pooling beneath the still-warm cadaver. In fact, Reaver mostly just seemed perturbed that Julia stood gaping in shock instead of continuing her report as normal. She struggled through the remainder of the itinerary, as he commanded, before hastily exiting his office to empty the contents of her stomach into the nearest latrine. 

In hind sight, the added blood had only made the rug more difficult to clean, though Julia would never say it aloud lest she want to end up with the same fate as the gentleman whose brain matter she had scrubbed from the carpeting. Yes, her employer was a fickle and ruthless man, and he made sure to uphold that reputation with the people of Albion. Once, when she was younger, Julia had heard suspicion that the famed industrial tycoon could not possible be human. He was too merciless. Too cruel. Whispers that he was some blood-starved demon from the void that had slipped through the cracks between worlds to bring chaos and pain to the masses. Of course this was just a fool’s tale, but it was this sort of rumor that was proof his efforts to maintain his carefully constructed facade bore fruit. He was no longer a mere man to these people. 

He was legend. 

This was why it came as a particular surprise to Julia when she first witnessed one of Lord Reaver’s nosebleeds. 

— 

As a young child in Oakvale, Reaver had been a chronic sufferer of nosebleeds. The cool, dry winters especially brought forth streams coppery carmine that seemed not to be stymied by any efforts. His mother was a patient woman, more so than could be said of her son, and she would often sit with him, her handkerchief pinched to his nose as he pitched his head forward, let the blood flow downward with gravity from his body until finally the clotting came and granted him reprieve. 

His father was not so kind. 

To him it was yet another failing of his son, an imperfection, a disappointment. _He’s only a boy, Leon. It isn’t his fault._ Blood pooling on his pillowcase as he listens to the shouting beyond the door, and perhaps if he’s still enough they’ll think he’s asleep. 

It was unfair of the Shadow Court to promise him immortality, yet still make him endure the failings of a mortal body. The humid air of Bloodstone had helped. His bleeding spells had lessened during his more piratical days, so much so that he thought perhaps the effects of his dark deal had simply taken time to seep fully into his veins. His mantle of undeath surely would protect him from the frailties of weaker men, and of course his ever-developing heroic regenerative abilities couldn’t hurt either. But alas, this only added insult to injury when he moved to the Millfields and found himself once again clutching a kerchief to his nose, soaked in blood. Hero’s blood. 

He’d shot the last maid to notice his ailment. She had been coming to tidy the study, found him leaned over on the chaise lounge, his head bent downward and a blood-stained cloth between his fingers. The intermingling cold horror and raw fury he’d felt when he’d heard her gasp in surprise was not something he’d soon forget. He would bolt the door to the study that evening, sequester himself from the prying eyes and whispering lips of the outside world until the morn, when he’d have her body removed and buried as well as all evidence of the event. 

He would _not_ be seen as _weak_. 

_Weak_. 

\--- 

Reaver didn’t initially notice it this particular day. He was at his desk, calmly perusing the daily production reports from one of his many factories with a shrewd eye. Julia was standing at his side and was in the process of reading aloud some of his business correspondences when something deep within the cavity of his face seemed to pop, letting loose a slow-flowing river of red that trailed down his lips and chin. Julia was the first to detect the subtle change, the alizarin droplets dotting the paperwork beneath his leather-clad hands. Luckily for her, she was clever enough to swiftly avert her eyes from the sight almost as quickly as she had perceived it, the sickly metallic stench of blood slowly permeating the room. Perhaps he was just too numb to the smell by now to even notice. 

Julia’s hand gently tapped at his shoulder, and Reaver looked up, his piercing amber gaze falling upon the woman beside him with some slight trace of annoyance. She was still looking dead ahead at the letters in her hands, eyes stern, purposeful, and most importantly averted from him. Her lips moved steadily to the words she read aloud, never stopping for even a moment, yet as his eyes trailed down her shoulder, her arm, her wrist, he finally came upon the reason for her interruption. In the hand extended towards him was a handkerchief, and Reaver felt his blood run cold. With a quick glance downward at the now marred parchment he confirmed his fears, and for a moment his fingers itched to pull a trigger, to rid himself of anyone who bore memory of his perceived fragility. 

But he didn’t. Not for the moment anyway. Instead he gritted his teeth, set his jaw in such a manner that the chords of muscle beneath his pale throat tightened and flexed, and slowly took the bit of cloth from her hand. He heard her let out a broken breath of relief as he brought the kerchief to his nose and pinched it there, just as his mother had taught him to do so many moons ago. His assistant had known that she stood upon the precipice of death, even if only for a moment, and Reaver drew his eyes away from her still trembling hands and back to his paperwork.

“Julia,” he said after a moment, voice stony and unwavering. 

“Yes, Lord Reaver?” Eyes ahead, unfaltering. 

“Lock the study doors.” 

“Yes, Lord Reaver.” 

He would allow her to live, for the moment at least, if anything to see what else she was capable of, and Julia Rackham would carry the kerchief stained with her master’s blood in her pocket from that day forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter this time, but there are much longer ones to come!


End file.
